


A Dance for the King — Part II

by sporadic_obsession



Series: A Dance for the King - A Medieval SakuAtsu Story [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Belly Dancing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:55:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28815963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sporadic_obsession/pseuds/sporadic_obsession
Summary: A week after his agreement with the King, Atsumu and Osamu arrive at the castle, at last.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Series: A Dance for the King - A Medieval SakuAtsu Story [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2112663
Comments: 7
Kudos: 163





	A Dance for the King — Part II

**Author's Note:**

> I have no self-control. Absolutely zero self-control whatsoever. So this happened. I couldn’t sleep because I’m sick so this was mostly written around 4am and then reviewed when I woke up.  
> It’s my first time in literal years writing any kind of NSFW scenes, so I can’t promise it’s any good.  
> Posted as a separate work because the original story can very well end where it does, this is just me being self-indulgent.  
> Kudos and comments appreciated, as always!

Miya Atsumu is an idiot. No, really, he is. He’s an idiot who’s been calling himself that for a whole week, driving his twin brother to the brink of insanity; he can tell by the way he keeps clenching his fists by his side whenever he so much as sighs. He can’t help it, though - he’s an idiot of astronomic proportions, after all.

After his private meeting with the King, he sought out Osamu as quick as he could - finding him was an easy feat, since they shared a home and he figured that’s where he had gone to, but it also made him realize how much of an idiot he is.

First, because he should’ve known straight away Samu would agree to their move to the castle, so long as Atsumu knew he could pull out of his agreement whenever he felt like it - after all, the man he’s been courting for years is a part of the King’s staff, and lives at the castle as well.

Second, because he realized that the King had canceled all his appointments of the day after his performance; it couldn’t have been for their measly discussion, because there was no way that would’ve lasted any longer than it did. No, there was obviously something else the man had wanted, something much more time consuming, and Atsumu - being the idiot that he is - had just walked off with a smirk and a tease, and left him there.

Well, here’s to hoping he won’t be beheaded him for the mishap, then.

They’ve just reached the castle, a week after meeting the King for the first time, and are now standing outside the gate. Atsumu isn’t sure what to expect, but Osamu assured him earlier it shouldn’t be too difficult to get in - after all, Bokuto had been told about their imminent arrival, and certainly he’d let the other guards know. Atsumu wants to believe his brother’s words, but he knows how air-headed Bokuto can be, sometimes, so he prepares to have to explain everything to whoever opens the gate for them.

As they wait, he scuffles the dirt beneath his feet with the heel of his shoe, until he hears the large wooden gate be pulled open, just enough for a guard to slip through. The orange hair on his head is his most recognizable feature, and Atsumu finds himself grinning at the shorter guard as a greeting.

“Shouyou-kun, hi!” He says, adjusting his grip on the leather satchel where he’s managed to shove all of his belongings.

“Atsumu-san,” the guard greets in return, with a blinding grin of his own, which he then turns to Atsumu’s twin. “Osamu-san. What brings you around here?”

“Ah, told’ya Samu, Bokkun forgot!” Atsumu turns to Osamu as he gloats about being right, poking his tongue out at the other man for a moment, watching him roll his eyes. Satisfied with the reaction, he turns to Hinata once more. “Look, the King wants us here, Bokkun was told about a week ago but I guess he forgot to let anyone else know.”

“Bokkun, Bokkun... oh, Bokuto-san?” Hinata, the guard with the orange hair, holds both his hands up. “Wait here, I’ll run and fetch him real quick,” he says, and before any of the twins can even agree to wait, he’s taken off in a run.

“I had a little more faith in Bokuto, what can I say?” Osamu huffs from Atsumu’s right, playing with the lapel of the shirt he’s wearing.

The twins are dressed similarly, both in the best outfit they have, which really isn’t saying much. Atsumu’s wearing a long-sleeved white tunic, tucked into a pair of black trousers that go up to his waist; Osamu is wearing a long-sleeved white button-up that falls down to his hips, where his dark brown pants start. It’s not as fancy of a get-up as most of the nobles they’ve met, and most certainly not up to royalty standards, but it’s the best they could do, given the circumstances.

A few minutes pass until they see movement again, and this time Hinata’s accompanied by Bokuto as he walks outside to meet the twins.

“TsumTsum! Samu!” Bokuto greets with all the energy he has to offer, which is always a lot. “Ah, you’re here to stay, right? Sakusa- I mean, the King’s told me about it, we’ve had rooms ready for you.”

“An’ ya didn’t think to let the other guards know so they wouldn’t hafta go find ya when we arrived?” Atsumu teases playfully, poking Bokuto’s shoulder when the larger man pouts. “S’okay Bokkun, we forgive ya, just let us in, we’ve been walkin’ all mornin’.”

He doesn’t tell either of the guards that him and Osamu have actually been walking for days, from their little town to the castle grounds, having stopped just that morning to wash themselves by the river and change to better clothing. Tugging on his brother’s wrist for a small sense of comfort, he follows Hinata and Bokuto into the fortress that composes the castle and to its main entrance. It’s a thing of beauty, all grey stone walls and wooden doors, and Atsumu figures it would be cold if it wasn’t for the consistent torches hanging on the walls, lighting up their path.

Bokuto stops in the middle of a hallway, one door on each side of him.

“Alright, Samu, this is yours,” he says, pointing to the door on his left, “and this is Suna’s, if you need anything,” he continues, pointing to the door on his right.

“Wait- what ‘bout me?” Atsumu can’t keep the slight whine out of his voice even if he tries, and it earns him a chuckle from Hinata, who’s still with them.

“You’re staying at the King’s quarters, TsumTsum,” Bokuto answers, so matter-of-factly, Atsumu almost forgets to act surprised.

“Oh Gods,” Osamu says as he opens the door to his own room, “the King’s gonna have ‘im killed in less than a week. Aren’t there any alternatives, Bokuto-san?”

“Hey! Don’t be rude!” Atsumu pouts at his brother, peeking into his room. It’s bigger than the one they shared, at their house, the bed alone double the size of the one they had each. There’s a desk by a corner and a shelf with some books on it, most likely courtesy of Suna, and a beautiful dresser on the other side of it. “Nice place, Samu,” he comments, previous plight forgotten in an instant. “I’ll come see ya after I put down my stuff.”

“Don’t,” Osamu replies, but Atsumu knows better; he knows his brother is merely teasing him.

With an insult and a promise to see each other later, Atsumu follows Hinata and Bokuto down another hallway, noticing that the doors become more spaced out the further they go. Eventually, they reach the end of it, where there’s only a door, and he guesses this is where he’s staying - where the King sleeps. Not only because it’s the only door left, but also because there’s a wooden plaque with a crown painted upon it that has been hammered to the door.

“And this is where you’re staying. Do you know your way back?”

“I think so, Bokkun. But if I get lost I can just ask someone, right?” Atsumu grins wide, masking his nerves as he wonders whether the King’s waiting for him behind that door or not.

“Yep! Just put your stuff down, take a bath, relax for a while. There’s a banquet in a little bit, I’m sure the King will want you there,” the head guard says easily, offering Atsumu a small wave as he guides Hinata away.

Atsumu takes a deep breath as he faces the door, gathering all and any courage he has left to push it open. He does it slowly, peering inside with only his head, and only after he confirms the room is empty, does he walk in and close the door behind him.

The King’s quarters are, as predicted, much larger than Osamu’s room; bigger than their entire house, he imagines. There’s a large window right in front of the door, curtains parted and tucked away to remain open, allowing the sunshine to illuminate the room. Right below it, the bed stands, the wooden structure carved with regal designs in beautiful twists and curves, every bit the bed fit for a King should be. Atsumu guesses it could fit about three adult bodies on it, with how large it is.

He steps towards the bed and takes in the rest of the room. The desk to the left, organized with paper and ink and a book still open on top of it, with a large shelf full of books as its backdrop. On the opposite wall, there’s a dresser with a matching design to the bed and its bedside tables, two empty drawers open to show that’s where Atsumu is meant to put his things. Next to the dresser, an archway leads to an adjacent room, where the dancer finds the largest bathtub he has ever seen, and it makes him eager to soak off his sweat from his walk for a little while.

Deciding that’s the best course of action, Atsumu quickly puts his few belongings in the drawers he was given, leaving out the clothes he’s decided to wear for today’s feast. After, he wastes no time filling the tub with lukewarm water, not cold enough to have him freezing, but just enough to fend off the summer heat clinging to his skin. He lets himself relax in the water for a while, scrubbing his skin until he feels it sufficient, making sure his hair is just as clean. When he gets out, he dries off with a towel he’s found hanging, and hopes to all that is good that it’s not one of the King’s own, and, if so, that the man will have a little mercy on him for using it.

The warmth of the room helps with drying him off, and before long Atsumu is walking the hallway back to where he knows Osamu’s room is, freshly washed and dressed. He’s wearing a simple combination, but that he knows catches the eyes of many. His black vest has been left untied, reaching down to the middle of his abdomen, yet showing off the plains of his chiseled muscles since he’s wearing nothing underneath it. His pants are, once more, slitted up to mid thigh and loose, also in black to match his top, and have small bronze beads all over the waist. They jingle whenever he walks, but he’s learned to control his step to minimize the noise when he doesn’t want it to be evident.

As he makes the curve to where he knows Osamu’s room is, he finds Hinata leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He seems to be waiting for him, because he pushes away from the stone once he spots Atsumu, a smile gracing his lips.

“Osamu-san’s left already, went with Suna-san to help in the kitchen. I’ll take you to the banquet room,” he offers, and since Atsumu really doesn’t know where that is, he has no choice but to accept.

The two walk calmly, Hinata filling the silence as Atsumu fiddles with the mask he’s holding. It’s a sheer black one, the bronze beads hanging from it matching his pants, but he hasn’t put it on yet; he’s waiting until they’re right outside the room where the banquet is being held. When he starts hearing noise and cheers, he deems it close enough and ties the fabric over the lower half of his face, taking a final deep breath before he crosses the entrance to the large room.

Most of the guards seem to be in the room, cups of liquor in hand as they talk loudly with each other; some of the faces spark recognition in Atsumu’s brain, but he doesn’t hold their gaze for long. Instead, he notices how there are few nobles around, and that most people in the banquet seem to be the King’s men and women. He was expecting to be greeted by a lot more royalty and nobility, but it seems that the banquet is being held for the King’s staff, instead. Something warm curls inside Atsumu’s chest at the thought.

When his eyes meet the King, Atsumu’s breath is stolen from him.

King Sakusa is sitting on his throne, a golden chair with too many details for Atsumu to make out, especially when there’s a much more interest subject sitting on it. He’s wearing black pants, much more well fitted than the last ones he saw him in, showing off his legs in the best of ways. Over it, he as a fitted shirt that is buttoned to his hips, but hangs down loose below that, also in black. He’s wearing his mantle over it, a long stretch of burgundy velvet tied at the neck, and his crown on his head. If Atsumu had thought he’d looked good the last time he saw him, he doesn’t really have the words to properly describe how beautiful he looks in his regal attire now.

The King spots him right away, of course. Atsumu doesn’t know if he’s simply developed a sixth sense so that his eyes can find him whenever he enters a room, or if he’s been simply waiting for him to show up, but he doesn’t mind. He preens at the way the King’s dark eyes slowly slide over his body, and knows he made a good call by choosing this outfit; he’s not going to make the same mistake from last time, and he knows that a good outfit choice is a great way to get the man’s attention.

“Miya,” the King calls, and even through the music being played and the loud conversations being held around them, Atsumu hears him. “Dance,” he orders.

Atsumu is not if an obedient servant, so he takes only a moment to nod and bow, before he finds the center of the room and lets the music carry him. No matter the rhythm, he dances, swaying his hips and bending his back as his hands twist and turn above him; sweeping his arms out as he twists, jutting out a hip to the sound of a tambourine. He swirls and twirls and smirks, even if it can’t be seen, and his bronze pendants chime and sing with every move, drawing the attention of all in the room. He allows himself to feast upon the attention, but his eyes keep looking at the King, his King, waiting for the moment he tells him to stop, even though he’s unsure it will ever come.

It does come, after a few songs have passed and some of the guards have steered a little too close. Atsumu is used to the proximity, but he can tell that the King is unhappy with it. He lifts a hand and the music stops abruptly, and everyone’s eyes fall upon His Majesty as he lowers his arm again.

“Miya,” he calls once more, but this time his voice is the only thing that echoes through the room. “Come here,” he says, and although it sounds like a command, there’s a gentleness underneath his tone that lets Atsumu know it’s a request; he decides to follow through the request, anyway. “Kneel.” Atsumu could say no, he knows that, but he has no reason to; he goes down on one knee right in front of the King’s throne, head hanging low until he feels the man’s fingers at his chin, tilting it upwards. “Who do you belong to, Miya Atsumu?”

The question is loud and clear for everyone in the room to hear; Atsumu knows the King is staking his claim on him, to make sure no one else around tries to put their hands on the dancer. He should be offended to be treated like an object; he should, but... there’s no hesitation in his voice when the dancer answers.

“I am yours, my King,” he says, no doubt or fear in his strong voice.

His light brown eyes see the twinkle of happiness that flickers in King Sakusa’s own dark ones, but he says nothing of it.

“Good,” the dark-haired man rumbles, and with a wave of his free hand, the music returns to the room. He doesn’t let go of Atsumu’s chin, however, leaning down closer to him. “I know you said you’d come, but you were taking so long I thought you’d changed your mind.”

“I’m a man of my word, my King,” Atsumu murmurs, eyes locked in the way the King’s lips quirk upwards minutely, in a smile so tiny he wonders if he’s imagining it for a moment. “Takes a while to walk the distance from where Samu an’ I lived to this place.”

Atsumu notices the moment he says something wrong, because the King’s lips - which he’s still obsessively staring at - turn into a straight line, displeased. The dancer looks up into his eyes then, finding them narrowed, the corners crinkles softly.

“Walk?” The King asks, and Atsumu really shouldn’t have said that, he realizes. Still, there’s no turning back now, so he nods slightly. “You- I apologize, I didn’t realize, I would’ve sent for someone to pick you up, had I known.”

Atsumu almost pouts when the King’s hand falls from his chin, the warmth of the contact somewhat grounding, despite his new surroundings. He doesn’t have to miss the touch for long though, because the King reaches for his arm instead. Atsumu follows the movements as he’s guided by the King’s hand - first, he stands. Then, he allows King Sakusa to manhandle him for a moment, and finds himself sat across his lap, legs leaning over one of the arms of his throne, his back supported by the King’s own arm on the opposite end.

He feels a little ridiculous like this. The fabric of his pants, victim of gravity, flows down to the floor to reveal his toned thighs and soft legs; his abdomen is contracted enough that his muscles are even more evident, glistening under the soft sheen of sweat from his dance earlier. He almost pulls away, but the King looks so satisfied, the hand that’s not on Atsumu’s back resting gently on his left thigh, that Atsumu stays.

“Are you hungry?” The King asks in a murmur, his thumb drawing circles on the skin of Atsumu’s thigh. “Or do you want to rest a while? You can go back to our room if you’d like, I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”

“No, I’ll stay here,” Atsumu says in reply, hands intertwined over his torso. “My King, we never discussed what Samu would be doin’ ‘round the castle.”

“Ah, so he’s joined you?” Atsumu nods only at the question. “Where is he right now? I think it’s best I discuss that with him directly.”

“Shouyou-kun said he’s helping out in the kitchen with Sunarin.” There’s a beat of silence, and Atsumu can tell by the King’s raised eyebrow that he’s just as confused as he was before. “Oh, ah, uh... Hinata Shouyou, the guard that brought me here?” He clarifies, and when the king nods curtly, continues. “Sunarin is Samu’s lover. They’ve been courtin’ each other for ages. Suna Rintarou, he works in yer kitchens.”

“Ah.” The King seems to ponder his next words for a second, expression tight as he hums under his breath. “You seem to know quite a few people around here.”

“Well, yeah. I’ve danced for ‘em before.”

Atsumu isn’t embarrassed about his profession, or about who’s watched him; he has no qualms to tell people about the nobles he’s seen watching him, or teasing some of the other townspeople when he spots them before he’s about to perform. With the mask on, it’s easy to accept the attention. The problem is when the mask comes off, and all of his insecurities come bubbling to the surface.

“Have any of them fucked you before?”

“I- _what_?” Atsumu’s eyes widen at the brazen question, the word’s catching him off guard. The King’s own expression seems impassive, but his fingers press that little bit tighter into the skin of his thigh, betraying his possessiveness. “I’m not a virgin,” the dancer mumbles, feeling his cheeks flare up, “but I’ve never had sex with one of my clients. Well. Not yet, anyway.”

The fingers loosen their pressure, slowly. Atsumu breathes a sigh of relief, but that turns into a gasp when he feels the King’s hand hike a little bit higher on the inside of his thigh, hidden by his other leg carefully, and brush against his groin, feather-like.

“I see.” Atsumu watches with wide eyes as the King allows his eyes to travel over the expanse of his body, laid over his lap as if he’s his for the taking. Which he is. “Very well, Miya. Stand. We’re leaving.”

Atsumu wants to ask if this is such a good idea. Should the King abandon the banquet he’s hosting? Is it really okay for them to just take their leave? He doesn’t ask any of those, however. Instead, he follows the King’s orders and pulls himself away from his lap, standing on slightly shaky legs. He watches as the King brushes away any wrinkles on his pants before he stands, as well, and the people in the room turn to watch.

“Enjoy the rest of the feast, I’m retiring to my quarters for the day,” the King announces, and as the people around them bow, Atsumu wonders if he should do it too.

He doesn’t get to try, though, because King Sakusa holds his hand and begins walking him out of the room with no concerns about any of the people watching.

Once again, Atsumu walks the path of the hallways of the castle, illuminated by the fires lit in each torch that hangs. He can feel his heart is beating fast. It’s not like he’s never done this before; he hadn’t been lying when he said he isn’t a virgin. Still, there’s something so nerve wracking about doing it with the King, but also so exhilarating at the same time, his heart’s pumping twice as hard to match the feeling of it.

Upon reaching the room, Atsumu is holding his breath. He is unsure about how to go about this. Usually, his sexual encounters are much more spontaneous, with no time to think about what he’s about to do. He’s been both on the giving and receiving end of the affections of others, but most often he’s the one fucking someone senseless, given his strong build. From the King’s earlier actions and the way he carries himself, Atsumu thinks that won’t be the case here.

Not that he minds. He always feels best when he’s being filled, his orgasm much more pleasurable when he has someone’s cock up his ass. It’s not like him to say it, though, so there are only a few instances of having it happen in his sexual history.

“Go bathe,” the King orders after he closes the door, the grip on Atsumu’s hand loosening until he drops it. “Don’t bother choosing a change of clothes.”

Atsumu almost whines, saying he’s had a bath prior to going to the banquet, but forces his lips shut. He is quite sweaty, still, and taking a bath gives him the perfect excuse to calm down. He nods and bows for a moment, heading off to where he knows the adjacent bath is, sinking into the water once the porcelain tub is full for the second time that day. Once more, he scrubs at the creases and plains of his skin, making sure he’s properly washed through, before he steps out of the tub and wraps a towel around his waist, shielding him from view from there on down.

He’s still wearing his mask.

“The mask needs to go.” The King’s words are spoken with no room for rebuttal, dark eyes washing over the glistening skin of Atsumu’s torso. “Lay down once you take it off.”

Atsumu had hopes that maybe he could keep the mask; it would give him a semblance of courage, the bravery to believe in himself and that the King isn’t insane for wanting him. Having to remove it, though, he has nothing to hold on to. Still, he does it. He unties the garment and gently places it on top of the dresser where he’s stored his belongings, and moves to lay on his back on the bed.

The towel is still tied tightly around his waist, his confidence waning with each second the King stands at the foot of the bed, taking him in. The mattress is comfortable underneath him, and Atsumu tries to relish in the feeling, but his heart’s started doing some weird sort of skips inside his chest, leaving him breathing a little shakily. He closes his eyes, figuring it might be easier, and lifts an arm to rest over them as he hears the King start to undress himself.

“Miya,” the man calls, and Atsumu feels the bed dip by his knees; he doesn’t dare move to look. “Atsumu.” He insists, and the dancer has no choice but to peek at him, mouth parted as little breaths pass through his lips. “Are you nervous?”

“I, uh, no, ‘course not,” Atsumu rushes his reply, knows he’s not the least bit convincing. “Dunno why ya chose me, s’all. There’s better lookin’ people out there, better dancers that’d prob’ly fit ya better.”

“Atsumu.” His name sends a shiver down his spine, and Atsumu is pliant as the King reaches for his hand, pulling his arm away from his face. “I want you. I haven’t wanted anyone in a long time, but I want you.” The words feel reverent, as if the King’s speaking an universal truth. “Allow me to show you why, if you won’t take my word for it, then.”

Atsumu watches with bated breath as the King, completely nude, climbs over him. His thighs encase Atsumu beneath him, his hands on each side of his head. The dancer is hypnotized by the way his curls bounce down as he looks at him, all of his face on full display for once. He is a gorgeous man, Atsumu remembers, but he doesn’t get much time to admire him.

His lips are taken by storm when they meet the King’s, the feeling of the soft flesh against his own driving warmth to the lowest part of his belly. It’s a good kiss, gentle and tentative at first, but quickly turning deeper, their tongues performing a dance of their own between them as they get a taste of each other. Atsumu’s hand moves from where he’s holding his towel in place to the small of the King’s back, the other grasped by the man as he leans down further to press their chests together.

Atsumu doesn’t know what it is about it, but he feels inebriated by the kiss, fingertips pressing a little harsher than intended into the skin of the King’s back as he nips at his bottom lip, a gentle whine falling from Atsumu’s lips at the action. The sound seems to break something within the King, because he pulls away from his lips, disregarding the saliva that stretches between them for a second, and begins dragging his lips and teeth over his neck instead, fully intent on drawing more of those sounds out of the dancer.

Atsumu is nothing but compliant, the mewls of pleasure leaving his lips with no restraint. The King, for his part, is diligent with his attention, biting and sucking at skin that Atsumu didn’t even know could make him feel that good, the fingers around his hand squeezing whenever the dancer moans a little bit louder, a little bit longer.

When Atsumu agreed to this particular arrangement, he’d thought he’d be the one to do all the work; he’d imagined himself worshiping the King in a whole new way, with open-mouthed kisses and sweeps of his tongue over spaces many hadn’t reached before. He was, surprisingly, okay with that. He doesn’t quite know how he feels, just yet, about being the one that’s being worshiped.

He doesn’t think too much about it, however, because his brain can’t focus on anything but the feeling of King Sakusa over him, fingers trickling down his arm when he releases his hand, tracing his side until they stop above the the towel, still wrapped around his waist. Atsumu gives a high-pitched whine when the dark-haired man sucks particularly hard at his collarbone, and doesn’t even realize the towel is off until King Sakusa pulls back, looking down to admire Atsumu in all his naked glory.

The dancer wiggles beneath the King, embarrassed by his sharp gaze.

“Atsumu.” Another shiver runs down his spine, and the dancer watches the King sit back on his thighs, pausing for a moment to run his hands down his abdomen. “Atsumu, I’m going to fuck you now.”

Atsumu feels himself flush at the statement, unsure why the King felt the need to voice it out loud; it is pretty clear what’s going down, and there’s just the two of them there, after all. Still, he gives a small nod, brown eyes dancing from King Sakusa’s face to his elegant neck, down the canyons of his collarbones and through his chest. He continues to trace his way down the smooth stomach of his King, finding the little trail of hair that leads to his cock, standing at full attention, flushed and glistening at the tip.

The dancer wants to do something, anything, for his King; he wants to lean over and take the tip between his lips, pleasuring the man like he’s been doing to him without even touching him. He wants to rake his nails down his abdomen, take the cock in his hands and watch the man come apart; he wants so much, but he does nothing. He simply watches as the King reaches for a jar with some sort of oil on the bedside table, coats his fingers with the liquid and then leaves his spot from the top of Atsumu’s thighs.

“Spread your legs,” the King orders, and Atsumu has no choice but to comply. He’s shy about it, taking a few moments to brave through the embarrassment, but it helps that King Sakusa’s grabbing two pillows with his clean hand to place underneath the small of his back. “Are you comfortable?” He asks, and the dancer can only nod, watching the King settle himself between his legs.

He holds his breath as the King bends over him, staring into the abyss of his eyes as he feels his wet hand trace his inner thigh. It’s a tortuous path he makes, slow and steady, but when he reaches the rim of Atsumu’s hole, he’s almost too eager for it; he squirms, wanting, and the King circles him once, twice, before gently entering him, one digit breaching him as he gasps. His breath is taken from him as the King kisses him again, tongue swiping at his mouth, tasting him as he sets a slow rhythm with his finger, getting him used to the sensation.

Atsumu relaxes after a while of this, mumbling the word “ _more_ ” against the King’s lips when he feels stretched enough for it, and then there’s another finger moving within him, curling at just the right moment to drag a loud moan from him, back arching as best as he can, given his position. His hands come to grasp the King’s shoulders, gripping him tight as he keens, eyes blown wide as he makes obscene sounds when he ads a third finger, scissoring them inside of him, touching him in just the right spot, until he’s writhing for even more.

“Sa— my King, please, _please_ ,” he begs, a hand moving to tug at the back of the King’s head, but he’s interrupted before he can continue his plea.

“Kiyoomi.” Atsumu startles for a moment, wondering who’s this Kiyoomi, wondering if he’s the King’s past lover and if he’s forgotten himself for a moment. “Atsumu. Call me Kiyoomi.”

“Oh,” the dancer sighs, the air leaving his lips brokenly as he feels the King - _Kiyoomi_ \- curl his fingers inside him again. “K-Kiyoomi, please...” He whines, tugging at the curls he manages to twirl between his fingers, pupils finding the smirk on his King’s face.

“Please, what, Atsumu? Use your words,” he teases, and oh, Atsumu is so gone, he’s weak to the rumble that is the King’s voice, vulnerable like he’s never been before.

“Please, fuck me. I need you to fuck me, Kiyoomi,” he pleads, batting his eyelashes as he tries to clear his vision, blurred by lust and warmth and something else he can’t quite pinpoint. “Please, please, pl— _oh_...”

Atsumu isn’t sure what Heaven is, or if he’s ever going to reach it, but he swears that’s where he is when he feels the head of the King’s cock breach his entrance. He’s larger than his three fingers had prepared Atsumu for, but he makes no noise to complain, taking it in stride as he continues to slowly slide into him, stopping once their hips meet. The dancer is breathing heavily, eyes closed as he adjusts to the length, and a few moments of silence fall upon the room, the only sound breaking it being the two of them breathing.

“My King,” Atsumu breathes out after a while, opening his eyes to stare at the King’s face. “K-Kiyoomi,” he still stumbles upon the name, but forces it out. “You can move now.”

That’s all the King needs to start a tantalizing slow pace, pushing in and out of Atsumu as if he’s got all the time in the world. The dancer doesn’t really mind, enjoying the change of pace and the time he gets to allow the intrusion to turn from pain to pleasure. When the change finally settles, he can’t help the whine that leaves him, legs moving to wrap around the King’s waist to try and pull him further into him, closer. The incentive makes the King speed up, hips snapping and breaking the silent atmosphere around him as he starts looking for something Atsumu isn’t sure he’ll find.

Not until he finds it, that is.

He almost shouts when he feels the King’s cock press against his prostate, the pleasure hitting him like a kick to the chest. His fingers tighten on the King’s hair, the other grasping at the comforter they’re lying on top of, angling his hips as best as he can to make sure the man can hit it again and again. He feels lightheaded with pleasure, full like he hasn’t been before, and can’t help his increasing cries of “ _more, more, more_ ” as the man keeps fucking him with intent, obviously focused on making Atsumu feel the best he has ever felt.

That proves to be true when the King - _so giving, so attentive_ \- uses one of his hands to wrap his fingers around Atsumu’s cock, stroking it in time with his own hips, delighted as Atsumu’s voice grows in volume, the lips wrappings around his name as he calls it over and over. It doesn’t take long for the dancer to be overwhelmed with pleasure, voice failing him as he feels his orgasm rip through him like a tidal wave, coating his own abdomen white as he finds his release over the King’s hand, legs clamping around his waist as he feels the man shiver and stutter inside him, both of them riding out their pleasure until there’s nothing left to give.

Atsumu finds himself panting as the world comes back into focus, eyes finding the ceiling above him only mildly fascinating as he tries to get his brain back on track. He hisses slightly when he feels the King slip out of him, and only has half a mind to lift his hips so the pillows that were cushioning him upwards can be removed and placed once more in their appropriate place. He lets himself rest, missing the heat of the King’s body over his but not saying a word; not only because he knows he has no right to, but also because he doesn’t think he’d be able to speak, even if he wants to.

“Clean yourself up,” the King instructs, offering Atsumu a wet rag from where he stands beside the bed, and the dancer takes it with shaky hands. “Are you alright?”

“Huh-uh.” Atsumu does an efficient job of cleaning up the mess over his stomach, making sure the rag is scrunched up closely so nothing slips out as he hands it back to the King. He attempts to sit up but there’s a burning sensation from between his legs that makes him hiss, one he hasn’t felt in a while. “It was good,” he says as he spots the King’s concerned gaze. “It’s just been a while.”

“Ah.” The King hums as he throws the rag away, careful not to taint any other spot of the room, and then walks to lay beside Atsumu on the bed. “Rest, then. I’m sure there’ll be someone here soon enough with food for the both of us.”

“Hm.” Atsumu allows himself to relax then, arm moving to shield his eyes from the light still shining into the room. “Sakusa Kiyoomi.” He feels the King startle next to him, but he’s only trying the words out, nothing more. “My King.”

“Yes, Miya?”

“Nothin’. Just checkin’ what that felt like,” the dancer mumbles, feeling exhaustion begin to seep into his bones. “Call me Atsumu though. Nobody calls me Miya, ‘cause of Samu. S’weird.”

“I see.” There’s a short silence, but Atsumu isn’t bothered by it; he welcomes the break in conversation, feeling his brain start to slowly shut down, leaving his skin buzzing as he starts to give into his need for sleep. “You don’t have to address me as your King all the time, either. Only when in public.”

Atsumu can’t help the small smile that tugs at his lips at the words. He knows they’re just in this for the dancing and the sex, but he figures it’s okay to establish some kind of companionship with the man. He hums in acknowledgement for a second, the words bouncing around his brain as he tries to come up with the best way to address the man laying beside him, in the intimacy of their room.

“M’kay.” He mumbles, limbs heavier as he finally figures out what he wants to say. “M’gonna sleep now, Omi-kun. Later.”

He’s not sure whether he imagines the feather-like brush over his hair, if it’s his sleep-addled brain’s way to comfort him after what he’s just done, or if the touch and the words are real - but, right before he falls asleep, he swears he hears a smile in the King’s voice as he talks.

“Sleep well, Atsu.”


End file.
